Thirteen West

by Jane Toombs

  * * *

  Barry Jacobs drove back from JadeBeach with the moonlight turning the blacktop in to a pale river where he felt he was heading upstream, away from where the current should be taking him. Away from the ocean, away from Alma and back to Luba.

  He'd told Luba he was on call these last two nights, but she was so involved with her own internal maunderings that she hardly listened. Did she even care? Why did he bother to lie to her?

  He thought of Alma's smooth skin, the lemon fragrance that intoxicated him. He couldn't go on like this, something would have to be done about Luba. He was beginning to wish her dead.

  * * *

  Simpson Jones lay awake in the moonlight and waited for Macardit. Calm now, no longer struggling against his bonds, he waited for the black form to appear and claim him, possess him so they would be as one. Three in one. He, the white girl and Macardit.

  He'd seen the Black One take the girl, entering into her by sexual union and had been afraid and worshipful at the same time. While he'd struggled with opposite urges to run or prostrate himself, Macardit had snarled and waved him away. Simpson was sure he'd be dead by now if the Black God had turned those terrible red eyes on him. Macardit hadn't, which meant Simpson E. Jones must be patient, for his choosing would come at another time.

  Would it be now? Had he been tied for the sacrifice? "Aiee, Great Black One," he called softly. "I await you." He began an ancient chant, one of his grandmother's, made up of words he'd never understood until now when their glory shone like the full moon.

  Time for the sacrifice.

  * * *

  W.W. Weebles took a green sleeping pill every night about ten. He knew it was chloral hydrate, really the way people acted in this place—as though one was an utter fool. A half hour after he swallowed the capsule he was asleep for the night. Usually.

  He woke suddenly, thinking someone had called his name. But as he waited, listening, he realized he'd been roused by the old black man they called the Preacher, shouting from another room.

  W.W. sighed and turned over, closing his eyes, trying to blot out the sound.

  "...blessed are those who wash their robes...the river of the water of life, bright as crystal—precious fruit of the earth—I am poured out like water—my heart is like wax...my strength is dried up like a potsherd...dogs are round about me...I can count all my bones..."

  Dogs around me is right, W.W. told himself, hoping the man would run down soon. Despite its hoarseness, the Preacher's voice continued, now and then rising to a shriek. "Macardit!"

  W.W. opened his eyes and sat up. Really, this was too much. A rustling came from the other bed in his room, from the poor wretch who slept there. W.W. glanced at him, quickly averting his eyes. Ghastly. Jay-Jay was all twisted in one of his seizures, blood oozing from his mouth. The bed rattled with the intensity of the attack.

  "I can't be expected to remain in this room," W.W. said aloud and rose. His door was never locked. He opened it and eased into the corridor. No one was about so he slipped quietly down the hall and into the men's bathroom where he perched uneasily on one of the toilets. Not the best arrangement but he knew some of the help were sleeping in the day room.

  How would his letter best be begun? Dear Pat? Or the aloof approach, Honorable Sir? The latter would better indicate his considerable annoyance with conditions here.

  * * *

  Sven Taterson covered his head with a pillow but the hoarse chant of the Preacher came through. He decided to get up and try to scrounge another sleeping pill from Joe Thompson. He shivered in the night chill of the ward and reached into his clothes cupboard for the green jacket Harry had traded him, slipping it on as he opened the door.

  In the corridor the Preacher's chant was louder.

  "...he took a knife and...divided her...into twelve pieces..."

  * * *

  In the other bed in Tate's room, alarm shrilled inside Dolph Benning. The words that flowed about him were no longer safe. He opened his eyes and slowly uncurled.

  "...and they cried aloud and cut themselves...till the blood gushed out..."

  Dolph raised his head and looked about apprehensively. Where was he? Who was speaking of knives and blood? Danger! Hearing footsteps approach, he cowered in the bed.

  "Okay, Tate, try again," Joe Thompson said. "I'll see what I can do to hush up old Simp." He stooped at the door as Tate reentered his room.

  Tate took off the jacket and tossed it on the bed before climbing under the covers. "Wasn't ever like this on Twelve East," he grumbled.

  "I'll see what I can do," Joe repeated, closing the door to the room.

  Tate. Knives. Blood. Dolph's heart pounded in his chest. Someone was in the room with him, he could hear the breathing. He shifted cautiously until he could see another bed. The man pretended to sleep but Dolph knew better.

  * * *

  "Hey, Simp, let's have a little quiet. What's the matter with you?" Joe stood over the spread-eagled man.

  Didn't sound like Macardit. Simpson focused his eyes with an effort.

  "If you don't quiet down I'll have to teach you how. You know what I mean, Simp? Shut up, now."

  A man in white. A white man. Simpson blinked. Wrong. "...let fire come down...and consume you..." he intoned.

  Joe hesitated, his head swimming with fatigue. Too early by a couple of hours for another dose of Thorazine.

  The way Simp was going, he sure needed it now. Could choke him out but he'd probably come to chanting so that wouldn't do a hell of a lot of good. Shoot him with the stuff now, then chart it as if given when it was due sounded like a better idea.

  Better make rounds now on the way back to the nursing station, at least on this side of the ward. Willie could do the other side after he woke him up.

  In the day room, Willie Rhone sat up, yawning. "How's it going?" he asked, then stood, stretching. From the chair in the corner, Zenda snored loudly.

  "I checked the even side," Joe said. "Don't give Simp any more Thorazine, he's ahead as it is. Tate got an extra chloral hydrate."

  "Yeah, okay."

  Joe dropped into his usual setup of chairs. "Take it easy," he said, closing his eyes.

  Willie slanted a look back over his shoulder. What was that for? Old Joe warning him off?

  Down the odd side. All asleep, even little old Laura Jean. Dreaming about him and here he was. Wasn't she lucky. Standing by her door, Willie hesitated. Maybe he should walk on down and check the rest, give Joe a chance to go under good. He glanced again at Laura Jean, blond hair streaming across her pillow. Aw, shit, do her first. He needed it.

  He inserted a key in the mop closet door next to her room and took out a folding step stool. Carrying it inside, he climbed up and removed the protective cover over the lights, then partially unscrewed first the unlit bulb, then the dimmer bulb of the night light. Darkness shrouded the room. He eased the door shut, scooped Laura Jean from the bed and laid her on the floor next to the wall, yanking off her pants. She moaned, but when he spread her legs apart they were limp and she made no resistance.

  "You little cunt," he whispered, "you like it, don't you?"

  Chapter Twelve

  In the room W.W had vacated, Jorge Jiminez, Jay-Jay, choked and stopped breathing as he arched into another grand mal seizure. Almost a minute passed before he sucked in air and it rattled in his chest.

  * * *

  Dolph raised himself on one elbow, his gaze never leaving the man in the next bed. Who was he? If he really was sleeping, this was a chance to escape before the knife appeared. Dolph sat up and put his legs over the edge of the bed. When he stood he staggered backward in sudden dizziness. Chill air struck his bare legs and he shivered, for the first time realizing all he had on was one of those hospital gowns that tied in the back. He didn't understand why.

  Damn, he was cold. He stared at the man in the other bed and noticed a jacket lying at the foot. Green. Wonderingly, he picked it up and examined it, turning it over in his hands.

/>   My jacket. They had my jacket. That man had it, the bastard. He clutched it to him. Where was Vera? Ron? He looked about the room. Hospital? He couldn't be sure. A dim memory of driving with Ron in the pickup came to him. A bottle. He'd hidden a bottle. He sat down on the bed and fumbled at the zip pocket of the jacket, forgetting the man in the other bed.

  * * *

  Margaret Flowers eased herself onto her feet. The floor was cold and uncomfortable but she had to use the bathroom. She hadn't slept at all well with that man shouting all those disjointed Bible verses. He was quieter now, though she could hear him muttering once she stepped into the hall.

  My, the floor was like ice! Her warm booties were under her pillow, that young nurse—Sally, wasn't it?—had bought them for her. A thoughtful girl. But her bare feet had better purchase on the floor than with the booties on. If she wore them to walk around in, she might slip and a fall could mean a broken hip. These hospital floors were slippery even with shoes on. She couldn't afford to risk a broken bone. That's why she so often used the wheelchair.

  Wonderful to be able to think so clearly, a gift from heaven, indeed, to be transferred to this new ward where the nurses didn't crush up your pills and serve them in a spoonful of applesauce like they did on the old people's ward. Over there, she'd had no way to avoid swallowing the drugs. But now she could slip the pill between her gum and her cheek, remove it when the nurse left and flush it down the toilet later. No doubt her nephew was responsible for the pills.

  Her mind grew sharper each day and she could walk steadier, too. If only she dared ask Sally to locate Richard for her. Nice as the girl was, though, better not trust anyone just yet.

  Margaret paused, listening. What was troubling that man so? She'd heard them call him the Preacher, much in the same way they called her the Duchess. She continued on to the woman's bathroom and relieved herself, but when she was on her way back he was still carrying on.

  "...the end has come—behold, it comes. Your doom has come to you..."

  Poor old man.

  Margaret stood shivering in the hall, expecting to see someone look along the corridor because flushing the toilet almost always brought a nurse.

  "Aiee!" The Preacher shrieked.

  Margaret started at the unexpected high-pitched cry.

  He must be suffering. She looked up and down the corridor but none of the nurses were in sight.

  Of course, it was none of her business. Still, it would harm no one if she looked in on the man. If he was merely having an incoherent spell as these poor souls she lived among often did, she'd not disturb him or worry about calling a nurse. But what if something was actually wrong with him? Margaret crept silently to his room and tried the door. Unlocked, so she eased open.

  "Oh dear!" She put a hand over her mouth to stifle her involuntary exclamation, but the Preacher had heard her and stopped chanting, his gaze fixed on her face. Why, in heaven's name had they tied him in such an inhumane fashion? All his blankets were on the floor—no doubt he was freezing. "Are you in pain?" she asked softly. "Cold?"

  He made no reply.

  "I'll help you if I can," she promised.

  "Must find Macardit," he mumbled.

  Could that be his wife?

  "Saw Macardit pass," he said. "Passed me by. Going to the girl..." His voice trailed off and he twisted in his bonds.

  "Oh, dear," Margaret said again. She picked up his blanket and laid it across him. How could she leave him tied so cruelly? Yet if she untied him would she be safe? She sighed in indecision.

  "Beloved, do not believe every spirit...," he intoned, "...it is the last hour..."

  The last hour. Margaret pressed her lips together firmly. She would not leave him tied so helplessly. With some effort she knelt by the side of the bed and applied herself to the knot that held his right wrist restrained, then rose and went around to the other side to release his left wrist.

  "There, Reverend," she said. "I do not know your name, but I can tell you are a man of God. Nevertheless, I have left your feet tied for my own safety. If you sit up and slide down in the bed, you should be able to reach the knots. Good night to you, Reverend."

  Margaret hurried from the room, carefully closing the door behind her and returned to her own bed. Better to err on the side of too little—all her life she'd done the opposite. Reaching under the pillow for her booties, she slipped them onto her icy feet.

  Oh, Richard, Richard, she prayed silently. When will you find me? Make it soon because it is almost the last hour.

  * * *

  Simpson lay without moving. Reverend, the old white lady said. He didn't remember any old white lady in his church. Reverend Jones.

  Simp, the bad voice in his head said. Simple Simon. "No!" Simpson sat up and tried to get out of bed but found his feet tied. He scrunched down and picked at the knots with numb fingers.

  * * *

  Dolph unzipped the zipper once again and slid his hand into the jacket pocket. Nothing. Had there really been a bottle inside, the way he remembered? One bottle got broken but Ron hadn't found the second one, he was almost sure. He looked at the unmoving figure in the bed next to him. The man's back was to him. Who was he? Could it be Ron?

  Getting up, he slid the jacket on over his hospital gown and crossed to that bed. "Ron?" he said tentatively. His voice came out rusty. He leaned over and grasped a shoulder. "Ron!" he said, louder.

  Tate turned over and opened his eyes to find Dolph peering into his face. "Hey, get away from me," he cried, sitting up and shoving at Dolph.

  Dolph staggered back, staring uncomprehendingly at the stranger, falling back against his own bed so that he had to sit on it. Where was Ron?

  "Look, buddy, why don't you just go back to sleep?" Tate said.

  Dolph didn't move, huddling into his jacket as he continued to stare.

  Tate narrowed his eyes. "That's my jacket," he accused. "You take it off right now."

  Dolph shook his head.

  "Damn it", Tate said, getting out of bed, "give me back my jacket."

  Dolph shrank away, "Vera!" he cried. "Ron!"

  "Shut up. What the hell's got into you?" He bent down and jerked Dolph to his feet, trying to peel the jacket off him.

  Faced with losing his jacket, Dolph went berserk, screaming and striking out wildly. Tate yelled for Joe Thompson as he tried to fend off the attack.

  Willie heard him and scrambled to his feet, yanking up his pants. In the darkness he stumbled into the step stool, knocking it over. He kicked the stool aside and made for the door, opening it to come face to face with Simpson Jones. Willie recoiled, then pushed him aside.

  "Get the shit back to your room," he ordered as he hurried toward the commotion.

  Simpson stared after him. Not Macardit. Black, but only a man. He gazed into the darkened room. Was the Great Black One inside with the white girl? He stepped into the darkness.

  Joe got to Dolph before Willie. By the time they pulled him off Tate, Zenda was in the room, too.

  "Want me to get a shot ready?" she asked.

  "Yeah," Joe said as he and Willie jerked the struggling Dolph into position so he could get his arm across Dolph's neck to choke him out.

  When Zenda brought the Thorazine back in a syringe, Joe jabbed the temporarily unconscious Dolph in the right deltoid.

  "What the hell got into him?" Tate asked. "He stole my jacket, then he took after me for no reason. Get the jacket off him, can't you? It's mine."

  Joe shrugged as he peeled off the jacket and handed it to Tate. "Who knows why," he said.

  "I don't like it over here," Tate said. "I don't belong with the crazies. I'm not staying in this room with that nut. You give me another room."

  "We'll strap him down for the rest of the night," Joe said. "You can talk to days about getting transferred to another room."

  Joe and Willie left Dolph sedated, with Zenda Poseying him.

  "Took you long enough to get there," Joe said to Willie as they walked toward the n
urses' station. "You're supposed to stay awake when it's your turn."

  "Yeah, well, I sat down in the lounge," Willie said. "Must have dozed off. Sorry."

  "Looks like we better make rounds, then, see what else is wrong. I'm not getting my ass in a sling—you better watch it, Willie."

  "Yeah, okay, we'll split the hall. I'll take—"

  "No way. I'm awake, I'll look at all of them." Joe glanced at Willie. "You come with me."

  They went down the corridor room by room. "A wonder they're not all climbing the walls," Joe said, "with that noise from the Preacher and then Dolph screaming."

  "Yeah."

  "Where's W.W.?" Joe asked. "His bed's empty."

  "Probably went to the can."

  They entered the room and glanced around. "He's not in here at any rate," Joe said, then looked over at Jay-Jay. "Damn. Blood."

  They both realized at the same time that Jay-Jay wasn't merely snoring, he was having respiratory difficulty.

  "Work on him, Willie, while I call the supervisor," Joe ordered. "He needs a doctor."

  * * *

  Crawford thrashed his arm about searching for the alarm. On and on the ringing went. The clock crashed to the floor and still the shrill bell continued. He opened his eyes to darkness and the confused realization the telephone was ringing.

  "Hello," he mumbled and cleared his throat.

  "Who? Where? Oh, Thirteen West." Crawford shook his head in an effort to clear the muzziness.

  "Grand mal? How long between seizures? Of course I think he's in status—what else? Doesn't he have a sodium luminal order? Valium? How long ago did you give it? Well, repeat the dose stat. What? Will I okay an order to what? Yes, go ahead, suction him as necessary.

  "The tech gave what? Not to the epileptic, I hope. Oh, you're talking about another patient. Go ahead and write a PRN order. No, I'm not coming over—sounds like you have things under control."